


The crane

by killerweasel



Series: The Crane [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerweasel/pseuds/killerweasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions can have the oddest results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The crane

Title: The crane  
Fandom: _Sherlock_  
Characters: Greg Lestrade/Sherlock Holmes  
Word Count: 1,989  
Rating: PG-13  
A/N: This is an incredibly AU fic written for [geniusbee](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com) over on tumblr who wanted a fic to go with [this art here (possibly NWS)](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com/post/35248197508/sherstrade-crane-wife-au-based-of-course-on). The art was inspired by the Decemberist's Crane Wife 1, 2, & 3 ([you can listen to it here](http://youtu.be/aPOMHM6waxk)).  
Warnings: none  
Summary: Actions can have the oddest results.

Greg wandered through the trees, breathing the fresh air. He hadn’t gone too far from his cabin when he heard something cry out in pain. He’d decided to ignore it until the sound came again. This time it almost sounded human. He moved in the direction the cries were coming from, hoping it was just an animal and that someone wasn’t hurt.

As he came to a clearing, he saw something on the ground. At first he thought it was a man with a wound to his temple and an arrow in his shoulder. When he got closer, he saw it was a rather large crane. There was an arrow sticking out of its wing. The crane cried out in pain as it struggled to get to upright. Greg could see a trail of blood leading from the other side of the clearing.

“Easy. I’m going to help you.” He took a couple of steps toward the bird and it froze. He frowned. Animals didn’t act like that. Then again, this was a wounded bird, so maybe the normal rules of animal behavior had gone out the window. Two more steps brought him next to the bird’s side. He crouched down on the ground. “This might hurt, but I need to get the arrow out of your wing.”

Greg took a look at the injury. The arrow seemed to have missed the bone, going through flesh instead. He pulled his knife from his pocket and very gently began to cut through the arrow’s shaft. With an apologetic smile, he pulled the arrow free. The bird let out a very angry squawk as it rose to its feet. It stretched its wings out fully and attempted to fly. When flight proved to be unreachable due to the wound, the bird took off on foot, heading into the trees.

“You’re welcome.” Greg rubbed his temple. He could really use a beer.

\---

A knock at the door made Greg almost drop his book. He frowned. No one came out here to visit him. Most of the people in the nearby village didn’t even know where the cabin was. They just knew it had a large garden due to Greg selling his vegetables at the weekly market. He set his book down before going to the door.

A man he’d never seen before was standing on the other side holding a loom in one hand and a violin case in the other. “My name is Sherlock and I’m in need of a place to stay. The man who runs the bakery in the village said you might have a spare room.”

“I do have a couple of rooms, but...”

“I have skills that might come in handy. This place isn’t exactly in the greatest shape, is it?” He looked around. “I can see at least four things in need of repair from right here.” Greg was going to say something, but found himself cut off. “I can weave. I’ll let you have sixty percent of the profits from anything of mine you sell in the village.”

Greg thought about it for a few minutes. The man seemed rather familiar and he had no idea why. “Fine.”

“All I ask is that you stay out of the room where I’ll be weaving while I’m working.” Sherlock stepped into the cabin. “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

\---

Living with Sherlock wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, but it certainly wasn’t dull. The man seemed to know vast amounts of information about the surrounding woods. Sherlock would take Greg to secluded places he never knew existed, like a small lake in the far end of the forest. Greg found Sherlock absolutely fascinating.

When he wasn’t outside, Sherlock tended to be in the weaving room. He would vanish for hours, only emerging when he had a completed piece. The items he created were amazing. Greg had never seen anything like them. The patterns and colors were simply stunning. He would hand whatever he’d finished to Greg to be sold on the next market day.

Sherlock never used the bed in the guest room. He either fell asleep on the couch or would sometimes wind up in Greg’s room, sprawled on the mattress like a slumbering cat. When Sherlock had nightmares, which seemed to happen frequently, Greg would stroke Sherlock’s hair or rub his back until he relaxed again.

Whenever he was out working on the garden, he’d hear Sherlock’s violin. It was almost a month after Sherlock had moved in that Greg actually got to see the man play. The music was beyond anything he’d ever heard before. He sat next to the fire and watched as Sherlock slowly moved around the room, the bow dancing on the strings of the violin. He felt himself be carried by the song, tossed around like a ship caught in the waves of an oncoming storm. Sherlock’s eyes stayed closed while he walked and yet, he never bumped into any of the furniture. Greg knew he’d never be able to do something like that.

By the time Sherlock finished, Greg felt worn out. He was surprised when he realized his cheeks were damp. He swiped at his eyes as Sherlock turned to face him. “Did I upset you?”

Greg shook his head. “The music was so haunting. I... I’ve never heard anything like it.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in the hint of a smile. “I need to weave before it gets too late, otherwise you won’t have anything to sell in the market in the morning.”

He was almost to the doorway of the weaving room when Greg caught up with him. Greg’s fingers curled around Sherlock’s wrist. “Can I watch this time? The things you make are so fantastic. I’d love to see how you do it.”

Sherlock yanked his arm free. “I told you before; you can’t watch me when I work.” Greg took a half step backward, trying to escape the fury in Sherlock’s eyes. “You must leave me alone when I’m in there. I haven’t asked for anything since I arrived here other than that. Do not open that door, Greg.”

After shooting Greg a final glare, he stepped inside. He slammed the door hard enough to make one of Greg’s paintings fall from the wall. Greg stared at the closed door for a moment. He fought the urge to go inside. While he really wanted to know Sherlock’s secret, it wasn’t worth destroying what they had. Taking a deep breath, he turned away. He could go chop more firewood to stay distracted.

\---

Sherlock’s weavings grew increasingly popular as the weeks went on. Even though Greg kept increasing the prices, people were still willing to pay whatever he charged. He stayed at the market until everything was sold. Soon they would have enough money to make all the repairs to the cabin and maybe even have enough leftover to build a greenhouse.

The good luck he’d been having suddenly went sour. First Greg’s truck needed a new transmission and back axle. Then the plumbing in the cabin stopped working properly. He had to call in a specialist to set things right. Worst of all, there was a storm which knocked a tree down onto the cabin roof. The bills for everything took most of what they’d earned.

Greg noticed Sherlock looking paler and thinner than normal, but decided it was the odd hours the other man was keeping. Sherlock spent most of his time in the weaving room, churning out gorgeous blankets and other works of art. They really needed the money from the new items to make up for what had been spent on fixing things. Greg would usually be asleep in bed for hours, only waking when Sherlock finally joined him under the covers. The younger man was usually too tired to anything other than sleep.

It wasn’t until Greg noticed the drops of crimson on the sheets and on the weavings that he finally figured out something was wrong. The weird thing was, he couldn’t figure out where Sherlock was hurt. He didn’t see any obvious wounds, couldn’t find any hints of injury. And yet… he was clearly injuring himself on something, otherwise there wouldn’t be any blood. Maybe the loom was damaged.

He glanced over at Sherlock. What he saw made his stomach clench in a knot. Sherlock looked like a walking corpse. When had that happened? He had been so busy going to town, trying to get the money to pay the bills, he’d barely seen Sherlock. “Sherlock?”

“Whatever you’re going to ask, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just need to finish what I started last night. This is the last one. I have to do it.” As Sherlock started to walk towards the weaving room, his legs buckled underneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. Greg started to get up and paused when Sherlock shook his head. “I said I’m fine.” He got to his feet slowly. Then using the wall for support, he staggered into the room, closing the door behind him.

Greg paced back and forth in front of the door. He could hear the sounds of the loom from behind it. Sherlock was not fine. He was as far from fine as someone could get. Whatever it was Sherlock was working on, it could wait until after his health improved. Greg grabbed the door handle and yanked it open.

He blinked a few times, trying to understand what it was he was seeing. Sherlock had vanished. The crane he’d saved near the edge of the woods was standing next to the loom, clutching one of its feathers in its beak. The bird was missing most of its feathers and he could see crimson where they’d been plucked out. It stared at him for a moment before slowly weaving the feather it was holding into the tapestry. A scar, identical to the one Sherlock had on his shoulder, was clearly visible on the crane’s wing.

“Sherlock?” The crane tilted its head slightly in his direction before looking at the tapestry again. The bird was Sherlock. No, that was impossible. People didn’t turn into cranes or the other way around. Things like that only existed in fairy tales.

Greg watched the crane pluck another feather. The bird was almost completely naked now. Sherlock had looked like he was on death’s door. What happened when all the feathers were gone? He was moving before he even realized it, putting himself between the bird and the loom. “You need to stop. Please. The bills are all paid. We don’t need the money. Just stop. Please, Sherlock. Stop. I love you.”

The crane dropped the feather before letting out an angry noise. It jabbed at him with its beak, catching him in the hands, stomach and chest. He could feel his clothing growing damp with blood from where he’d been pecked. Reaching out, he managed to grab the bird’s wing. The moment his fingers came into contact with the scar, the bird collapsed, sending both of them to the floor.

Greg opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s head on his chest. Sherlock was breathing heavily. His skin was covered with small drops of blood, each about the size of a plucked feather. Greg brought his hand up and very gently stroked Sherlock’s head. Sherlock closed his eyes. “Did you mean it? What you said?”

“Yes, I meant it.” Greg used his other hand to make lazy circles on Sherlock’s back. He could feel the tension draining from the other man’s body. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should have noticed sooner. I should have stopped you.”

“You didn’t know.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. “I still want to finish it.”

“Not until you’re healed.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed against Greg’s ribs. “I’m so tired.”

“Rest. I’ve got you.” He felt Sherlock smile. “Everything’s going to be okay.”


End file.
